


Repercussion

by frooit



Series: Bohemian Rhapsody [2]
Category: The Pacific - Fandom
Genre: First Time Blow Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Short, With A Twist, and general naughtiness, blowjob, for the hell of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 05:40:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frooit/pseuds/frooit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything that should have happened in part one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Repercussion

Snafu's spreading your lips, pushing them wider the further he intrudes, going as _slow, slow, slowly_ as he can, taking everything from the moment, not missing out. He's hissing air through his teeth, timed, controlled. The beat of his breath and the beat of his heart at odds. It's just the head of his cock in your mouth, reaching for the back of your throat. Eyes are right on you, glued to you, as full of life as you've never seen them. Nearly gleaming, nearly vibrant. Face just the same, flushed and living with colour. He's watching on as you take him further, his hands clawing down the rear of your head, wrenching at your hair. Those chewed to hell lips split as he mashes his teeth, red lines tracking up the cracks. He's halfway now, face touching on agony, defeat, salvation, but he pulls back.

Lets you catch your wind.

" _Fuck_."

A breath or two, a quick in and out and he's back, prodding your closed lips, smearing fluid gathered and running (as scalding hot as the rest of him). He's not giving you much to work with, just wants back in, to slide down your tongue and edge as far as he can and maybe further still, until you choke or gag or your eyes well up and roll back. He doesn't seem too concerned, doesn't seem too aware, lost inside your willingness.

Warm weight, yielding presence. Your tongue runs along and feels, decoding, trying to learn. He gasps and jerks, forcing himself inches more. You're perilously close to having no air in that moment. Arms shoot up and grab, finding his hip, the back of a leg, nails biting naked skin. He stops at halfway, dancing on the edge of too much, too little. His chest heaves, up and down, turning full body tremble, rattling his dog tags. Not like you've done this before. You don't exactly suck cock for kicks back home. It's the blind leading the desperate.

He's grinning now, half-crazy, half-lame. Sweat stands out on his forehead contrasting and smudging the ash and dirt collected, making clean little trails. He shakes his head, his curlicue hair, like a dog, sending salted droplets showering down on your face. You twitch and blink for every one. Eyes gone dry from looking, mouth drooling saliva, neck straining from such an angle. You're on your knees, the cold of the earth branding into your skin (as submissive as you aren't in reality), him standing above.

He starts rolling in and out, even. Long strokes, short strokes, and you relax, finding rhythm. No sooner than that is he bucking forward, faster, holding your head steady, straight. You squeeze your eyes shut. He breaks beyond your lips and teeth, bumping over your tongue again and again, vibrating an adoration, grating deep and broken. It's strangled, inching towards a (war) cry. White bursts behind your eyelids. You smart your nails into his skin, digging hard.

Pain is a new language of yours.

"No" he starts and has to clear his throat.

"Teeth," he finishes, breathless.

You don't exactly listen to his suggestion. You ease your teeth down, right on the very tip as he's receding back, slower, right where your tongue fits the best. He curses, cuts off a _fuckin' bastard_ and twists his fingers in your hair. Hard enough to urge tears from your eyes, but not hard enough to damage his best asset. You apologize, sucking and pulling, your lips pressed tight. It's appallingly easy, shades of comfort, the wet slide of his cock in and out of your mouth. His audio, his smell and taste, the entire dynamic. Complementary. This should conjure some concern.

A man just a boy, he's like a bad habit. Like spitting in public or picking a scab. Like staying out late or talking in church. He's the physical embodiment of everything you didn't have or weren't allowed. He's the physical embodiment of perpetual disarray, utterly impossible to shake and world worn and dangerously strange.

You're feeling rather hopeless, caught up.

He's looking down from above, mouth forming a vowel, fiercely starved eyes shoveling you down, eating you up. You close him out, the expression left blazed on your corneas, seared to your pupils, sunk in deep and candy coating your brain. Noises, so much like he made before, illustrating, graphing, like flash photography. Every heavy breath, every breath missed, every groaning rumble and withered simper, it's Morse code. He's getting closer. The tension in his core, you can feel it through his cock, can feel it through the fingers at his hip. So close. 

You tease him for his troubles, for all _your_ troubles, turning your head to the side as he drags out, not letting him back. Lips, they feel pulled and stressed, friction smooth. You don't see his hardening jawline, his knitted brow. You add your hand to the equation. His cock slippery smooth and hideously over-heated, fever pitch. You loll out your tongue and press, fingers curling round and sliding down, grip unforgiving. He strains, jerks and eats up a lung full of air. His knees are starting to go, his back curving.

It's a shock as it happens, as he yells out his conclusion, louder than sin, cracking the air. He paints your face with it, liquid fire, spilling over your parted lips and cheek and chin. It's tracking down your throat, into your shirt.

You open your eyes and it's daylight and the world's sideways.

"Mornin', sunshine."

You start, cold sweat itching.

Snafu lounges across from you, smoke in hand.

"Bad dreams?"

"Um... Don't remember," you falter, sitting up.

He offers his cigarette, gauging you. You don't give him anything, just take it, fingers flirting and departing, instant. Those thin digits, bare feet, bare ankles. The warmth from his lips still on the paper. Your pulse fluctuates. His face clean and half sleep numb, lips pouty slack, hair a strung out mess. The night wasn't kind to him either.

"Bad dreams," you reiterate, exhaling, shaky.

That feels true.


End file.
